


The Vamp Around the Corner

by Rebcake



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Alternate Reality, Christmas, F/M, Gem of Amarra, Season/Series 05, Thanksgiving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-19
Updated: 2013-01-05
Packaged: 2017-11-23 21:00:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/626467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rebcake/pseuds/Rebcake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the Slayer's family moves house in her second year of college, a new neighbor swiftly becomes all she wants for Christmas. His wants are decidedly more complicated.</p><p>
  <b>No Rest for the Wicked Awards Round 11 (Showtime — best original plot/AU, runner up)<br/>Running With Scissors Awards Round 11 (Nobody's Butt Monkey — best characterization [Joyce], runner up)</b>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place in an AR wherein Buffy was called to Slayerhood according to schedule, but did not move to the Hellmouth until her freshman year of college. NOT a Wishverse fic. Many thanks to shapinglight for betaing. Contains dialogue swipes from BtVS. I do not own…yada…strictly not for profit…yada…

When she came to help her daughter move out of the dorm at the end of the term, Joyce Summers told Buffy that she’d fallen in love with Sunnydale.

“I found a terrific gallery space right on the main drag. It’s a perfect location. And, well, I’ve been thinking that it would be better for Dawn to be in a smaller community for her teen years. It can be hard to keep a sense of perspective in LA,” she explained.

Buffy wasn’t thrilled about her mom and sister relocating to Sunnydale. For one thing, it was on top of a Hellmouth. Duh. For another, it felt a little claustrophobic after being an independent woman for almost a year. Well, an independent woman who lived on campus, ate in the college cafeteria, took her laundry home at school breaks, and was still on her mom’s dental plan. But still! She was used to keeping her own hours and having entire weeks of nothing to do but school, parties, and slaying. The simple life. She could practically see her curfew-free, dishwashing-free freedom fading away.

So she said, “That’s great, mom! You’ll be so…close!”

Joyce just laughed at her.

“Yes, you can still live on campus, Buffy.”

Buffy kept forgetting how hard it was to hide her feelings from her mom.

“Oh. Well, if it’s okay with you…”

“I haven’t forgotten _my_ college years, honey. You deserve to have your chance.”

“Really?”

“Really. Of course, I hope you’re more responsible than I was.”

“Mooooom!”

Joyce laughed again.

July was a flurry of packing, August a flurry of unpacking, and before she knew it, Buffy was settling into her new dorm room. Her old roommate, Willow, was rooming with her girlfriend Tara this year, and Buffy had scored a coveted single.

Too bad she didn’t have anybody to christen it with. Her on-again, off-again boyfriend Riley was permanently off. She felt a little blue about it, but it was just one of those things that came with dating a military man. He’d been deployed on some hush-hush mission and had told her not to wait. It was all very manly and self-sacrificing, which was annoying, but it saved her from having to break up with him, so she called it a win. He was a great guy, but he didn’t really get the slaying gig, and she could tell that it wasn’t going to work long-term. At not quite 20-years old, she wasn’t really thinking long-term anyway. There was a whole world of hotties out there, and she was planning to browse. Responsibly.

+++

Buffy had to admit that Sunday dinners at Casa Summers were something she could have used last year. Not only did her laundry get done more regularly, but it was comforting to get away from all the collegiate bustle and reconnect with her reliable, warm, loving circle. Even getting stuck with dish duty once a week was soothing in a weird way. It was really nice checking in with her mom and Dawn. She got updates on their lives, and she shared the highlights of hers, with the gore somewhat glossed over. Dawn was a bloodthirsty kid, and always wanted to know more about the slayage, but her mom got real quiet if the stories were _too_ exciting.

After the gym fire incident at Hemery High, her parents had almost had her committed. Her story of centuries old vampires, evil minions, and one girl chosen to stand against them _was_ bonkers, but it happened to be true. Buffy had proved it. It hit them hard, but they’d stood by her and tried to be supportive of her special needs — horrible hours, wardrobe replacement, medieval weaponry. She once tried to reassure them by explaining that it wasn’t that different than if she’d gone into competitive ice skating. Her mom had put down the mace she was fingering and locked herself in her room for an hour.

When the divorce happened, they both told her that it was something between them, and not because of her calling. Buffy even believed them 95% of the time. 98% after she met Hank’s new girlfriend. He’d been great though. He checked in all the time and never missed a date with her, except that one time that wasn’t even his fault. Stupid Watcher’s Council and their stupid “tests”.

Her dad had explained that both he and her mom were proud of her, but like the parents of any kid who went into combat, they worried. A lot. She tried to not make it worse, and that meant the stories with the closest calls were not dinner table material.

One Sunday, Mom mentioned she might invite a neighbor over for Thanksgiving. Buffy had already asked if she could bring Willow and Tara, so it wasn’t going to be just family, and both her mom and Dawn had mentioned this neighbor before. Apparently, he was a bachelor and had been a regular welcome wagon over the last few months. First he came by with a housewarming gift of wine, then provided the name of a local kid, Xander Harris, who was good with household repairs, and finally took Joyce and Dawn to putt-putt golf to celebrate Dawn’s first report card. Joyce confided that he was also great about bringing his friends by the gallery, many of whom were now customers. In short, he sounded way too perfect. Buffy said so. Again, her mom just laughed.

“Oh, honey, he’s really not my type. He’s been very helpful, and he’s certainly handsome. I can appreciate that as much as any woman, but he’s a little, oh…” She searched for the right word. “…edgy for me. He’s got this, I don’t know, rock star vibe, I guess.”

“Just the vibe we want at Thanksgiving,” huffed Buffy, envisioning the Bill Nighy character from _Love Actually_.

“He told me he hasn’t got any family, Buffy. I won’t invite him if you don’t want me to, but I’d like to think I raised you to be more hospitable than that.”

Game, set, and match. “Fine. Never let it be said that I was unkind to orphans.”

“That’s very charitable of you, darling.”

+++

Buffy was rearranging the gourds in the dining room when the doorbell rang.

“I’ll get it!” she called over the sound of the electric mixer. She opened the door to find a man slouching on the porch in the late afternoon sun. His carefully mussed shocking white hair was lit from behind to look like what her art history teacher called a nimbus. He had killer cheekbones, thick eyelashes, and a lean, broad-shouldered body encased in black leather, charcoal wool, and cranberry silk. He looked up and smiled. Definitely NOT Bill Nighy. Not Riley Finn, either. She could practically hear the theme from “A Summer Place” playing in her head.

“Hello, cutie. Your mum in?” After a quick glance at her, he looked over her head as if she wasn’t even there.

The imaginary record screeched to a halt. She stared at him with narrowed eyes. Seriously? _So_ not going to be treated like a kid by this…gorgeous…English accent-having…asshole. She crossed her arms.

“Who wants to know?”

He blinked and looked at her with surprise. He stood straighter.

“Sanger. William Sanger. But call me Spike. Everybody does.”

They stared at each other. A slow, sexy smile spread across his face. He leaned against the doorframe and gave her a blatant once-over. In Buffy’s opinion, this was much more acceptable than the indifference of a minute ago, even though she could feel a blush coming on.

“Gonna ask me in? Don’t want these to get warm, now do we?” He held up some champagne bottles.

Buffy touched her cheeks. Yup. Flaming. Get it together, Buffy.

“Can’t have that. Warm would be…” She gave him a stern look. “…bad. C’mon in.” She moved out of the doorway.

He stepped across the threshold, managing to make it look like a maneuver out of the Kama Sutra. Rock star? More like porn star, thought Buffy. Bad Buffy. Oh, he was talking…

“…must be Buffy. From everything Dawn’s said, thought you’d be taller.”

“You too," she shot back. “I mean, yes. I’m Buffy. Dawn’s much older sister. ”

His eyes sparkled with amusement. “Right. Now that we’re such good friends, you want to help me get these lovelies on ice?” he asked, again holding out the champagne bottles.

“Yep! Icy goodness coming right up!” Glad to have a mission, Buffy led the way to the kitchen.

“Spike!” cried Dawn. She was in the middle of spooning cranberry sauce into a bowl, and had managed to get some smeared across her cheek.

“Alright there, Niblet? Hello, Joyce.” He juggled the bottles into the crook of one arm and reached out to wipe the bright red spot from Dawn’s face. Dawn flapped her hands and danced away from him, squealing.

“Hello, Spike,” said Joyce. “Let me help you with those.” She took the bottles and went to the cupboard that held the ice bucket. She glanced at the labels, then did a double-take before turning to him with wide eyes. “Oh, Spike. This is very generous.”

He looked uncomfortable. “Just something I had lying around. Seemed like the thing for a party.”

Joyce laughed. “I’ll say. I just wish I had a battleship to christen with it.”

“What! And waste all those lovely bubbles? Think we should toast your charming daughters instead. They’ll probably launch a thousand ships any day now. Suspect you’ve put a few hundred in motion yourself, pet.”

Her mom shook her head, smiled, and waved a dismissive hand at him. Buffy was impressed at the way he managed to flatter every female in the room at once. Evil. She should probably keep a close eye on him.

“Can I try some?” asked Dawn, peering around Joyce’s back to look at the bottles.

“Oh, I don’t know, honey…”

“Pleeeease?”

“Well…alright. You can have a taste at dinner. But don’t get your hopes up, sweetie. You probably won’t like it.”

The doorbell rang again, and Buffy left the family scene in the kitchen to answer it. Willow and Tara stood there beaming. She ushered them inside. They exclaimed over the wonderful scents filling the house and oohed and aahed over the beautiful table. After a few minutes of pleasantries, they all headed for the kitchen to help out.

Joyce had coaxed Spike into a “Kiss the Cook” apron, and he was doing a creditable job of carving the turkey. Buffy thought the entire tableau was mouth-wateringly yummy.

Introductions were made and tasks appointed. As the other women carried platters, baskets, and bowls to the dining room, Buffy hung back with Spike. She picked up the ice bucket.

“How’d you get roped into doing hard labor?” she asked.

“Might’ve let slip to your mum that I like playing with knives,” said Spike with a wink. He unhooked the apron from around his neck and slowly pulled it away from his body. “Makes me feel all…manly.”

Her mouth went dry. She couldn’t have made an answer to that if the fate of the world depended on it. He hefted up the platter of turkey slices and carried it through the door. Buffy trailed behind hugging the ice bucket to her chest, wondering when it got so hot in there. Maybe he really _was_ a porn star.

“Can see why they call it the groaning board,” said Spike, once all the food was placed on the table. He was back in polite guest mode, Buffy noted. He plucked a champagne bottle out of the ice bucket, popped the cork and handed the bottle to Joyce. She poured a glass for everyone, though just a small amount for Dawn.

“A toast,” Spike said, raising his glass. “To new friends and new beginnings.”

“To new friends,” the others murmured. They all took a deep swallow.

Dawn watched the others carefully and took a mouthful along with them. Her expression changed from cautious to pinched and she struggled to swallow.

“Like it?” asked Spike.

She turned to him with a pained smile and nodded.

“Very convincing. Don’t let anybody bully you, precious. If something tastes like…” Spike paused and glanced at Joyce who raised an eyebrow at him. “…a spade, well, you go ahead and call it a spade. Besides, then there’ll be more for the rest of us.” He smiled conspiratorially at Dawn, who beamed back and reached for the sparkling apple juice instead.

The dinner was a great success. Spike, being English, wanted to know more about this “daft Yank ritual”. Everybody shared stories of their family traditions, and there was enough new material there — what with Willow’s revisionist history, Tara’s devout upbringing, and the Summers’ conventional SoCal take — to carry them through to the after dinner mints. As they relaxed in the living room with a warming beverage — brandy, coffee, or tea — Spike finally veered into dangerous conversational territory, and it wasn’t politics _or_ religion.

“So, Joyce tells me you’re a Slayer.”

“Mom!”

“I didn’t think it would do any harm, Buffy. It’s not like Spike doesn’t know about the things that go bump in the night, you know.”

“True. Don’t like to brag, but I’ve met a few Slayers in my time.” He turned to Dawn and whispered loudly, “Kidding, pet. I _love_ to brag.” Dawn giggled.

“But, I’ve been the Slayer for four years already! How many slayers were here before that? Do we all end up in Sunnydale, eventually?”

“Didn’t meet them here, did I? Been all over the world, you know.”

“Oh. Really? I met a wooden dummy once who said he knew a Korean Slayer in the ’30s.”

Tara mouthed, “Dummy?” to Dawn, who nodded sagely.

“That so? Knew a Chinese one, myself.” Spike looked toward the ceiling and made a toasting gesture with his glass before taking another swallow.

Wait a minute. British. Supernaturally aware. Knows Slayers, multiple. She should have seen it before.

“Hey, are you a Watcher or something?”

He choked on his brandy.

“Perish the thought! I am nothing like those poncey buggers. Hiding behind little girls, sending them off to do their dirty work…” He trailed off as he noticed the startled looks of this dinner companions. “Prefer to fight my own battles, is all,” he mumbled.

“Oh. Well. That’s good. I’m sort of not on speaking terms with the Council after their fun little birthday surprise when I turned 18.”

Joyce nodded vigorously. “I don’t like to speak ill of people, but those men are rat bastards!”

+++

Annnnnd, they were off on their favorite subject — Council of Evil Watchers, Ltd. Dawn had heard it all before.

Bored, she began fiddling with the rings on Spike’s fingers. He absently slipped off a chunky silver skull ring and handed it to her. Dawn tried the ring on several of her fingers before settling it on her thumb, where it was still very loose. She held her hand out to judge the effect and shook her head. She handed the ring back to Spike who slipped it back on his hand. She tapped on his pinky ring. He took it off and handed it over. This one was a delicate silver hummingbird skull or something, with the beak stretching along to the second knuckle. The smaller size was working better for her, but it still didn’t make the grade. She sighed and handed it back. Finally she settled on the one he wore on his ring finger: a golden skull overlaying a clear green stone. She tapped it. He glanced down and shook his head. She tapped it again, more forcefully.

“Not that one, Bit.” He said it calmly, but she could tell there was no room for negotiation.

She pouted until it was time for pumpkin pie.

+++

“You like him,” stated Willow with a grin.

“How can I like him? I just met him!”

“I like him,” said Willow. Tara nodded.

“You do? Both of you?” Buffy was confused.

Willow clarified. “For you. He’s interesting. He’s great with Dawn. He’s super nice to your mom.”

“He’s sex on a stick,” added Tara, helpfully. Willow nodded. Buffy goggled at them.

“You guys! You’re not supposed to notice that stuff. Gay, remember?”

Willow and Tara looked at each other, then turned back to Buffy and shrugged in unison.

Buffy groaned. “All right! I do like him. And not because he’s nice to Dawn, either. But I don’t think he likes me.”

“You’re kidding, right? He seemed pretty into you. In a ‘we’ve just met and your mother is sitting right there’ kind of way. He was definitely watching you.”

“You really think so? I mean, he barely spoke to me. But when he did, he _was_ kinda flirty. You don’t think I’m too young for him or anything?”

Tara cleared her throat. “Um, I might be wrong, but I don’t think that ‘too young’ is something that bothers a lot of guys.”

They pondered this. After a moment, all three wrinkled their noses with distaste.

“To a point,” added Tara. “I mean, you’re not exactly a kid.”

“Right,” said Willow, seizing on the main point. “You are a beautiful, accomplished, heroic woman. If he’s the right guy for you, he’ll be able to appreciate all those things.”

Buffy pondered that. It seemed reasonable.

“You guys are right. If it’s meant to be, it’ll happen. I’m not going to be all obsesso-girl about it. Hey, how do you think he got that scar on his eyebrow?”


	2. Chapter 2

Joyce called with an invitation to a Christmas party at Spike’s house taking place on the Saturday after finals were finished.  
  
“I know it’s a few weeks off, but he really wanted to make sure you got the invitation ‘before your dance card fills’.”  
  
Buffy wondered if this could possibly be a date. Probably not, if he was setting it up through her mom.  
  
“My what?”  
  
Joyce laughed. “Those were his exact words. I think he thinks you’d rather go to an end-of-term kegger or something.”  
  
Inwardly, Buffy groaned. He _did_ see her as a dumb kid.  
  
“Yeah, right. Because Buffy and beer are so mixy. You guys are going, right?”  
  
“We are. Dawn informs me that it is an event that requires new dresses.”  
  
“Oh, really?” That sounded promising. Even if it wasn’t a date, she was confident she could find a dress that would move things in the right direction. “So…shopping?”  
  
“Shopping,” promised Joyce.  
  
+++  
  
Turns out, while shopping at this time of year, you were bound to run into people you knew.  
  
The Summers women emerged from the last shop on their list, laden with bags and chattering about their epic success at the sale rack, nearly running over a dejected-looking Spike.  
  
“Spike!” said Dawn, who spied him first.  
  
He looked over at them with surprise and made a visible effort to rearrange his face into his more usual cool and confident expression.  
  
“Hey there, Bit. Ladies.” He took in their bags and flushed faces. “Happy hunting, then? Must be parched after all that. Can I buy you all a drink?”  
  
“That would be lovely, Spike,” said Joyce. “You’re very kind.”  
  
He shuddered. “Just need to get out from under these fluorescent lights. Makes my skin crawl.”  
  
They found a restaurant with a blooming onion on the menu — a thrilling prospect for Dawn and Spike, apparently — and a quiet booth tucked into a shadowed corner. Buffy could almost convince herself it was verging on romantic, but the vision of Dawn primly fussing with her Shirley Temple across the table ruined the illusion. As did the fact that she couldn’t get a word in edgewise while Spike and her mom talked about gallery stuff.  
  
Was she ever going to get any time alone with this guy?  
  
Joyce finished her drink and picked up her purse.  
  
“Thank you again, Spike. I feel ready to brave the mall once more. Dawn, you and I have one more stop to make. Buffy, shall we meet you at the fountain in, say, forty-five minutes? You can manage the bags, can’t you?”  
  
Ooh. Conspicuously uninvited. Praise Allah. Or one of those guys, anyway.  
  
“Sure thing, mom. I’ll just keep on taking a load off. Save my strength for defending our retreat. Have fun!”  
  
Once they were gone, Spike signaled for another round. He seemed to be steeling himself for something. They were finally alone. Where was the flirty sex god now? Not even looking at her. Her skin was buzzing at being near him, but he didn’t seem to be affected by her at all. Buffy started to get annoyed.  
  
“Something bothering you?” she asked. He shot a quick glance at her before concentrating on fiddling with his empty glass.  
  
“What? Oh, not really. It’s just the holidays I suppose. Can get a fellow down.”  
  
Oh. Well. She could sympathize with that. She was all about the sympathy, in fact.  
  
“Mom told me that you don’t have any family nearby. That’s got to be tough.”  
  
He poked at what was left of the onion, not looking at her.  
  
“No family anymore, period. It was just me and my…grandfather…for a long time. He wasn’t well. Took a lot of looking after, but I didn’t mind. Gave me something to focus on, you know? He was killed about four years back, and it’s just me left. Still a bit at loose ends, I expect.”  
  
“I’m sorry.”  
  
“Are you?” he asked, pinning her with a challenging look.  
  
Urgh. He must be one of those annoying people who mistook every expression of sympathy as an apology, some admission of guilt. Why did they do that? She _obviously_ didn’t have anything to do with his poor old grandpa’s death. She met his gaze.  
  
“Yes. I’m sorry for your loss, and I’m sorry that you’re feeling down.” She cast about for a way to put things in a more positive light for him. “Look, I don’t know you very well, but you seem like a guy with a lot going for him. You’re young, you’re smart, you’re handsome, you’ve got friends, and they seem to care about you. You’ve got my mom in your corner and that’s like having your own army, right there.”  
  
He smiled briefly. “Yeah. I’ve got friends. I’d almost forgotten what that was like.” He sighed. “Still, nothing beats family.”  
  
He took a breath and fixed his gaze on the red votive candle nestled in the seasonal centerpiece. Slowly, he reached out his hand and held it over the flame. Smoke soon began to curl around his fingers, but he held it there for long seconds, seemingly mesmerized. Buffy was about to intervene when the waitress set their drinks on the table, startling them both. He pulled his hand back and blinked at her. He regained focus and shrugged.  
  
“Oh well. Can’t be helped. Just like an old friend used to say — the trick is not to mind it.”  
  
Buffy was beginning to think that he was a little weird, and not just because he was English. She grabbed his hand to check for injury. It was unmarked.  
  
“Gonna kiss it all better?” he asked with a smirk. Ooh, flirty Spike was back.  
  
She rolled her eyes and dropped the hand, but couldn’t help smiling. He turned toward her in the booth and flung his arm across the back of the bench, almost touching her shoulder.  
  
“So, we’ve got a few minutes to kill, pet. What do you want to talk about? Wait. I’ve got something. What was it? Oh, right. You said something about me being handsome?”  
  
She ducked her head. “You heard that, huh?”  
  
He nodded. “Fascinating subject. Bears further discussion, don’t you think?”  
  
“Conceited.”  
  
Before she knew it, it was time to go meet her family. Spike walked her to the fountain and stood squinting up into the mid-afternoon light spilling through the atrium ceiling. He was a bit strange, and made her feel all kinds of unsettled, but she couldn’t remember ever feeling such a thrill around a guy before. She usually only got this worked up from slaying, but it was nice having that level of excitement without all the bloodshed.  
  
Yep, Buffy knew for certain what she wanted Santa to bring her. She spent the ride home wondering how Spike would look stuffed into her stocking come Christmas morning.  
  
+++  
  
Spike’s house was bedecked with all the holiday trimmings. Beautiful tree, swags of garlands, tons of holly, ivy, mistletoe and other greenery. A fire blazed merrily in the fireplace. A young woman played seasonal tunes on the piano in the corner of the living room.  
  
Joyce introduced Buffy to Xander, the young man who had built her deck. He was open and friendly, if a little juvenile. Buffy was unsurprised when Dawn bounced off to play video games with him. Joyce was soon chatting happily with a group of art lovers. Even with the great new dress, Buffy was feeling awkward. She didn’t really know anybody here, though they seemed nice enough. They were townies and she was a gownie, even if a townie by relation. She didn’t want to hang out by the food table for long, just in case she actually turned into a crab puff by eating so many of them. She wandered over to look at the large painting hung over the mantle.  
  
It was an old-fashioned portrait of four young people in elegant Victorian garb. Even through the impressionistic brush strokes, she could tell that the women were stunning. There was a blonde that looked regal and imposing in spite of her youth. A demure brunette with striking, luminous blue eyes wore a smile that told the viewer she had a delicious secret. The men were handsome enough, she supposed, though the bigger one had really terrible hair, and his sneer was not attractive. Something was vaguely familiar about him, she thought, before the smaller man in the portrait captured her attention. He had longer, darker hair, but his blue eyes blazed above prominent cheekbones — a dead ringer for Spike. Buffy laughed.  
  
“What’s got you so jolly this evening, Slayer?” Spike came to stand beside her in front of the fire.  
  
Buffy pointed at the painting. “This is really good. I thought it was authentically old, but then I saw your face painted on it and got the joke. It’s way better than those Old West fake photos, that’s for sure.”  
  
A shadow passed over his face as he gazed up at the picture.  
  
“That’s prob’ly because it’s not a fake. Been in the family for a century, at least.”  
  
“But, that could be you!”  
  
“Expect so, in another time and place. Funny, isn’t it?” He didn’t sound like he thought it was funny at all.  
  
“So, I guess you’re related, huh?” She looked again at the other faces, not seeing any strong resemblance to Spike in them. The dark-haired man looked down on her, his haughty expression challenging. She could almost imagine they’d met somewhere, but it was silly to think it.  
  
Spike cleared his throat and pointed at the blonde woman. “She was my great grandmother, as I understand it. Vindictive bitch, it’s said. No doubt she had her reasons.” He made a visible effort to shake the gloom settling around him. “Sorry, pet. Seem a bit stuffy to you? Want to get some air?”  
  
“Air is one of my favorite things,” agreed Buffy.  
  
Outdoors in the nighttime was her specialty. Riley used to tell her that she was at her most beautiful in the moonlight. She liked to think there was some truth in it, although he wasn’t usually so poetic. She worried he’d got the line out of a manual: _50 Effective Techniques for Talking to Your Prospective Partner, Female_.  
  
Spike led her out onto the patio. A couple of party-goers were smoking cigarettes while lounging around a firepit set into the flagstones, but they were otherwise alone. It was cool and crisp by southern California standards, but that was no impediment to Buffy, who spent more time outdoors in the evening air than your average co-ed. A pool shimmered off to one side, underneath a trellis strung with tiny lights. In the other direction was a winding path leading to a merrily lit gazebo.  
  
“Ooh! Cute!” exclaimed Buffy. “C’mon!” She tugged his arm and took off down the path.  
  
Spike groaned. “Fussy old pile. Been meaning to tear it down for years, but the landscaper keeps going on about _feng shui_ bollocks until I’m so bored I’ve forgotten what we were talking about.”  
  
“Don’t be a grinch. It’s sweet!” Buffy bounded up the steps. The gazebo had a bench built around the edges, appointed with scattered throw pillows, but the floor was open. She threw her arms wide and spun in a circle. The little lights blinked gaily, the rush of cool air caressed her skin. She felt like she was dancing in dry champagne, effervescent. “It’s beautiful!”  
  
Spike stood at the bottom of the steps, looking up at her with a hungry expression. He slowly mounted the stairs, never taking his eyes from her face. His gaze grew hotter as he drew closer. She shivered. This must be what prey felt like. Interesting. She wasn’t sure if she couldn’t move, or just didn’t want to. He prowled around her, and she felt a wave of goosebumps spring up as if her skin could tell where his eyes swept over her body. God! If she didn’t know better, she’d think he was as much a creature of the dark as she.  
  
He halted in front of her. Wordlessly, he pointed up. She glanced at the crossbeams and saw a clump of mistletoe hanging directly over them. She gulped and looked back to him.  
  
“Don’t want to…” he started, before grinding to a halt. He looked into her eyes with such intensity that she felt he was at war with himself. She could see the desire, but there was something else. Suspicion, maybe?  
  
She had no such ambivalence. She stood on her toes, wound her fingers in his hair and brought his mouth down to hers. He tensed for a moment, but then kissed her back with fervor. She felt electricity flow between them, cold and ferocious. It arced over her skin, from scalp to tingling toes. The sensation was so strong, she felt barely able to stay upright. This was passion as she’d never felt it before. Yet, something about the phenomenon seemed familiar. Then she realized what it was.  
  
Her slaydar was on overload. VAMPIRE! it screamed. She pulled back. His eyes flew open, and when she saw the glint of yellow reflecting from them she knew she was right.  
  
How was it possible? She’d seen him in the sun. Watched him run his hand over a candle flame. Talked with him, laughed with him. In a split second, she decided it must have just happened. This was no longer Spike, and she would do her duty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Shirley Temple is a non-alcoholic cocktail served to make kids feel more grownup. Looks like a Whiskey Sour, tastes like ginger ale and cherry syrup. The "friend" Spike refers to when holding his hand over the flame is T. E. Lawrence, AKA Lawrence of Arabia. No, Spike didn't eat him.


	3. Chapter 3

Buffy's stake was in her hand and headed for Spike's chest before you could say “and to all a good-night”. The strike was true. She looked into his face, apology on her lips.

But his face did not turn to dust. She looked down at his chest. His hands were clapped around the stake, the point of which was buried halfway into his chest. Why no dust?

“Ooo, tickles,” he said as he pulled the bloody stake out of his flesh. “Point to you. Any other surprises for your host, Slayer? Think I preferred the kissing part of the evening, myself.” He flung the stake out of the gazebo.

“But…you’re a vampire,” she noted. It was a point she thought deserved greater attention.

“Aw, you noticed. Finally.”

She jumped up on the bench and swung from one of the beams, feet together to form a battering ram, and hit him solidly in the chest. He went down sprawling. She dropped onto the bench on the other side, and spun to face him as he rolled to his feet.

She hooked an arm around one of the upright posts and got some torque into her flying kick and nailed him on the shoulder blade, sending him rocking forward. He turned to her in vamp face.

“There you are.” She advanced with a flurry of blows, most of which he blocked, then fell back again. “I slay your kind.”

“You’re welcome to try. Don’t think you’ve met many quite like me, sweet Slayer.” His tongue lolled out, tasting the tips of his fangs. She shuddered.

She tore a piece of latticework from the wall of the structure and leapt to the floor, makeshift stake at the ready. Though, if staking wasn’t going to work…it was still comforting to have a bit of wood in her hand.

“Yeah, yeah. You’re a real special snowflake, alright.”

She tried a leg sweep, but he leapt up to grab a crossbeam and swung up into the rafters. She was starting to think this cute little gazebo wasn’t the best place for a fight like this. She could see his pale, human face looking down at her, lit by the hundreds of tiny lights wound around every post and beam. His voice drifted down to her.

“’m unique, see? A vampire with a soul.” He laughed darkly.

“Vampire with a soul? What the hell does that even mean?”

He dropped down beside her. She spun to the left and then reversed, her stake slashing down. He caught her wrist and twisted her body so her back was flush against his chest, her arms held tight. He gave her a shake.

“Means I don’t feed on the populace, for one thing.”

He lowered his mouth to her neck, a single fang pricking the skin there.

“Point to me,” he murmured.

He shoved her away from him, and began dancing like a prizefighter, making annoying “come and get it” motions with his fingers. It occurred to her that he had yet to really attack her. His moves so far were mostly defensive. He’d just had her, and not taken his advantage. She made a “T” with her hand and the bit of lattice.

“Okay. Timeout. What is your deal?”

He settled against one of the archways, watching her warily. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. His brow creased.

“Spill.”

He shook himself and held up a hand. “Got a soul.” He ticked off one finger. “Don’t eat people. Not anymore.” Another finger. “Don’t let other demons eat people.” Tick. “Won’t just lie down and die, so don’t ask.” Tick. “The end.”

She was dubious. “So, you’re like a vampire hostage negotiator? Because of this soul business?”

“More like a vampire judge, jury, and executioner, love.”

“But… You’re saying that you fight the forces of evil? You’re telling me you _kill_ your own kind?”

“Dusted my own great great grandsire when he tried to open the gates of hell a few years back. Don’t know why the old bugger thought that was a good idea. Hell’s not likely to be a spa for vampires or anything.”

“ _Years_ ago? You mean you’ve been a vampire all this time? While you’ve been hanging out with my mother?”

“Well, yeah.”

She sputtered. “But, but, the _sunshine_ , and, and the _fire_ , and the _mini-golf!”_

“Your point?”

“Why aren’t you dead? Those things should make you dead. Deader!”

“Told you. ’m unique. Not that mini golf ever did anyone in, mind.”

“So, what? Having a soul makes you invulnerable?”

“Not exactly. But you’ll find I’m harder to kill than most.”

She was having trouble processing all this. She sank into a pile of pillows on the bench. He stayed where he was.

“Okay…go back. This soul thing. What’s that all about?”

“Don’t know everything. Not a philosopher, here. Just…well see, it was a while ago. My family and I, we had quite the reputation for...you name it: death, destruction, pain. One time, we got on the wrong side of some gypsies. One of us killed one of their most treasured daughters, and made sure it hurt.”

He took a deep breath, and looked away.

“Her clan cursed my clan. Cursed us all to know the pain we’d caused. Feel it for ourselves. For all time. It was a good trick. _‘I wear the chain I forged in life’_ and all. Jacob Marley had nothing on us.”

He patted down his pockets and retrieved a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He lit one and drew in a lungful of smoke. After far too long, he exhaled.

“It hit all of us differently. My sire, she wasn’t very strong and it took everything I had to keep her from killing herself. I failed, of course.” He took another drag. “Her sire lasted longer. He was never the same. How could he be? But he kept trying to make things right. As if he could. Least he tried.”

He took another puff and then crushed his cigarette into the ground.

“Now _his_ sire — that was interesting. She couldn’t stand to look at us. She was the head of the line, see, and I figure her guilt was four times what the rest of us felt. She was gone within a week. I didn’t find out what happened to her for almost eighty years. She’s dust now, too.”

Buffy choked. “ _Eighty_ years! You’ve been around for eighty — eight, zero — years?”

He gave her a rueful grin. “Lot longer than that, Slayer.”

Now she knew what they meant when they said your mind was boggled.

“I don’t understand this. I just…you’re not going to kill anyone?”

“Like I said, I won’t just lie down and die. If it’s kill or be killed, I’ll be doing the killing, ta ever so.”

“But not regular people.”

He nodded. “Not regular people.”

She thought hard, but her mind was just going in circles.

“I don’t think I want to slay you. But how can I trust you?”

“Maybe you can’t. Not saying I’ll give you reason you shouldn’t, but trust…that’s up to the person doing the trusting, innit?”

“I guess I could try,” she said in a small voice.

He was beside her in an instant, pulling her into another kiss. Buffy wasn’t sure she had traveled all the way from “vampire: possibly non-lethal” to “vampire: kissing is good”. She pushed him back, ignoring his questioning expression. Something about this was nudging at edges of her mind. Something about kissing vampires?

The memory slowly rose from where she’d buried it and began to unfold.

This had happened once before. Four years ago, an age in a Slayer’s life. A handsome older man had come to her with cryptic messages of doom and dire warnings. She’d been intrigued, as one was when young and still new to the whole slaying gig. After a few weeks of mysterious appearances and disappearances, they’d ended up kissing. He’d vamped. She’d staked him, relieved that things hadn’t gone farther, and wondering how he had deceived her for as long as he had. As the memory flashed across her mind, she realized why the other man in the painting had seemed so familiar.

“Angel!” she gasped, pulling away from Spike.

His face changed from hurt and hopeful to hard and angry in a flash. He growled.

“So it _was_ you, you bloody bitch! Must’ve been a proud moment for you, taking out the great Angelus when the poor sod was at his lowest ebb.”

“But…he was a vam… I guess you knew that. Friend of yours, huh?”

“Friend? He was my sire…my, my Yoda! And you killed him when all he wanted was to help you! I tried to warn him. ‘You don’t know Slayers like I do, Liam,’ I said. ‘It’s all business with them,’ I told him. ‘Not a drop of mercy in ’em.’ Did he listen? No, one look at your pretty face and he thought he’d finally found salvation. Stupid git.”

It was like he was speaking a foreign language or something.

“Look, I don’t know what he told you, but it looked to me like he was trying to trick me into trusting him so he could get his fangs in me while my defenses were down. Sort of like tonight, actually. It almost worked, too. And I’ve got _buckets_ of mercy!”

She couldn’t tell if he had heard her or not. He ranted on.

“S’pose you think you’ll do me the way you did him. Don’t count on it. You won’t be the first Slayer I’ve bested.”

“What!”

“When my Dru went to that Slayer in China, talking nonsense. ‘Look at her lovely light, Spike. So beautiful. It’ll burn me clean’. Did that bint show the slightest bit of mercy? No. She cut her down right in front of me! Like she was a sheave of wheat. Soul or not, I couldn’t let that go. I fought her and I killed her, good and proper.”

Buffy gasped. She felt behind her and snapped off another piece of lattice. She slowly rose to her feet. He was pacing, gesturing wildly.

“I’d do it again, given the chance. She killed my Drusilla, when she was soul-sick and wouldn’t hurt a kitten, not anymore. And that girl in New York! We’d finally found Darla again, after decades, and she turns to dust hanging from a strap on the subway!”

Buffy tried to keep up with what he was saying, ready for the inevitable attack, but his mind was clearly not in the here and now.

“We weren’t bothering anyone. We were just trying to get back to Brooklyn! Fought that one too. Broke her lovely neck while Angel gathered up Darla’s ashes, out of his mind with grief.”

He stopped pacing and glared at her.

“Then, Angel dies by your dainty hand. Thanks to your kind, my whole family is gone. What would you do in my place?”

She checked her grip on the stake behind her back. She could sort of see his point, but he’d just told her that he’d killed two Slayers! Sympathy was not her top priority now. He didn’t give her a chance to answer him.

“And now I’ve got all these, these _feelings_.” He pointed toward the house. “For your mum, your little sis, every person in that house there tonight. Even got feelings for you!” He held a finger in her face, rigid with emotion. “You deserve to die, as sudden and senseless as he did, but I couldn’t bear it.” His hand fell to his side. “Couldn’t live with myself. Couldn’t cause them that pain. Know it wouldn’t ease mine any.”

He folded down onto the bench, spent. She brought the stake out, but stayed where she was. He glanced at it and sighed.

“You can’t kill me, Slayer. It’ll be me who decides when it’s time to shuffle off this immortal coil, nobody else.”

She looked at the piece of wooden lattice in her hand. Could he be telling the truth? Was he dust-proof? In her experience, there was always a way. If she had to, she was always able to kill the things that needed killing. The question was, did he need killing?

“You’re not giving me a lot of choice here, Spike. I really am sorry about Angel. Maybe I could have done things differently. And I’m sorry you’ve lost so many people you cared about. It’s my business to prevent that from happening to people, so I get it. But — and this is a big one — I’m getting whiplash from the ‘trust me/I should kill you’ talk.”

He nodded. “It’s a tough spot for you. I won’t kill you and you can’t kill me. But you’ve got a job to do, right? Gotta fight, win or lose.”

“Well, strictly speaking, a job would involve things like getting paid, but I do have a duty.”

He appeared to think about it for a long moment, before looking up at her with resignation.

“Okay then. Got a proposition for you. Let’s say I’m ready to go out the way my sires did. Join them in the great after-unlife and all that. Only I won’t commit suicide by Slayer. I’ll fight. Fair combat. I’ll give it my best. If you win, I’ll be dust. You’ll have done your duty. Chalk another one up for your team. If I win…well.” He tilted his head in thought, his brow creased. “Yes. It’s a good plan.”

Buffy wasn’t sure she’d followed him around that last bend in the conversation.

He stood up. “What do you say? Ready to have your shot at William the Bloody, Slayer of Slayers?”

Without waiting for her answer, he walked out of the gazebo. He took off the ring on his ring finger and threw it across the yard. It landed with a plop in the swimming pool. “There’s my insurance policy gone. Let’s do this. Give it me good, Buffy.” He turned to her and puffed out his chest in invitation.

Buffy looked at him from the bottom step of the gazebo and tried to make sense of his proposal. She held up a hand, indicating he should wait.

“Let me see if I’ve got this straight. You want to fight me, without whatever mystic safety net you’ve got. If I can, you want me to dust you, so you can join your vampire forebears in dusty bliss. How’m I doing?”

“That’s about the size of it.”

She nodded. “But if I can’t dust you, if you fight better than me, then…what? You already said you won’t kill me.”

He looked uncomfortable. “I’ll, uh, ask for a rematch, I guess.”

If he was hoping to inspire a sense of urgency in her for this fight, he was failing. With such low stakes, what was the point?

“Okay, you see the flaw, don’t you? You’re asking for a fight to the death, but only your death, and that’s kinda one-sided.”

He tilted his head at her in question. She sighed.

“What you’re really asking is for _me_ to try to kill _you_. And if you’re not going to kill anybody, why would I need to kill you? You see the problem?”

He shook his head. “Not from your perspective, no.”

“I guess. But, there’s an easier way, Spike. It goes like this: You don’t kill anybody and I don’t kill you. You step out of line — I squash you like a bug.”

He began to look hopeful.

“Instead of a big fight — which would probably ruin my new dress — why don’t we go back inside? Get some nog, get warm. You can tell me more about your family. It sounds like you’re really missing them. The holidays can be tough when you’re missing the people you love.”

His eyes were shining. “You’re a very strange slayer.”

“Yep,” she said, dropping the makeshift stake. “I’m unique.”

She took his arm and together they walked back into the house.  
  
_FIN_


End file.
